


Molecules

by Serenhawk



Series: Cockles in the Wild [6]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Jibcon coda, Light Angst, M/M, POV Jensen, Pillow Talk, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: It's a while before Misha and Jensen find themselves alone on the final day of Jibcon, but when they finally do, Misha has a few things to say despite Jensen wishing they would have a different kind of conversation.





	Molecules

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the numerous coda for the great underbear antics. Bless the Fandom Bureau of Investigation and all you do.
> 
> Though this skips the D/s and goes straight to the aftercare, the dynamic is threaded throughout since I read it underlying many moments in the Cockles Jib 2017 panel, which had Jensen flashing Misha one minute and on the verge of tears the next. Jensen was a hot mess: tipsy, exhausted and emotional, and being a brat to deflect it all. Misha was just doing his damnedest to look aloof while being anything but.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

 

“Hey.”

Jensen’s eyes travel upward from the hand landing on his spread knee, pulling Misha’s worn face slowly into focus.

He hadn't realized he'd zoned out and lost the raucous room around him. In fact now that he tries to, he can’t recall coming back to the green room. There was everyone enveloping him, then some more words and noise...so much noise. The noise was just right, like the white noise the babies went to sleep to. But now he needs quiet.

Fingers tap over the denim on his thigh, staccato to keep him present. Misha always knows how to keep him present. “You gonna make it?” The blue eyes are washed out from fatigue; a little glassy, but probably not half as much as his own are.

 _Goddamn_ he doesn’t regret a thing but they both need to sleep for a week. A week…just a week would be perfect. Just them, someplace quiet where they were answerable to no one other than themselves. With a bed. A big cosy white bed he could stay in where he could hear the sea and lay in the sunlight and doze while Misha...did Misha things.

“When ’ve I ever not?” he challenges, forcing a limp smile even as his reserves seep a little further. He lets them. Even though he’s a little uncertain about what will happen later, when they’re alone, Misha’s got him now.

Misha doesn’t smile back at him, his mouth wavering on something before his lips press together. Laughter cracks to their right before it’s joined by a cascading chorus, and Jensen has to close his eyes for a moment to filter the sound. He loves these people filling up the room, he’s utterly safe here, and he needed this weekend like he’s going to need a double espresso in the morning, but right now his senses are recoiling.

A thumb massages into his kneecap. “I jus’ need a minute,” he says, blinking to peer into Misha’s eyes again. They're clearer this time. Harder, but with concern pulling at the corners. Maybe he’ll get what he wanted after all, the quiet space in his mind he couldn’t always reach on his own.

“Finish that,” Misha orders softly, nodding towards the neck of the bottle of water wedged between Jensen’s fingers. He doesn’t recall how he came by that either. “We’ll wrap this all up as soon as we can.” Then he’s gone again, promise hanging in the air as bodies shuffle round the room like a chaotic merry-go-round.

Jensen takes a deep draft of the cold clear liquid and stands. There are claps on shoulders, hugs, tired grins. There is signing more prints and banners and flags. There’s more laughter, more being shuffled down hallways, and then a car to the hotel to quick-change his clothes.

The restaurant is noisy too but it’s like surfing a wave, enough momentum bubbling under him to carry him through the end of the day. Misha sits closer tonight, just out of reach. Jensen is never quite able to catch his eye, and though Misha smiles at the others round the table, and cracks jokes, and interjects into stories, Jensen can see he’s retreated somewhere else, behind the shifting opacity of one of his walls.

It makes Jensen nervous. Makes him almost second guess what he’d read in him back on the final stage: the reassurance as Misha leaned into him, the fingertips dug into his shoulder after they’d exited behind the curtain, burrowed fiercely into his trapezius to tether them until they were handled away by a volunteer. Thinking about it only makes him crave more; more than that proprietary firm grip, more than the reviving touch on his knee, more than the not-so-casual palm at the small of his back as they reunited outside walked in here to eat and laugh.

Jensen sips at his wine but his heart isn’t in it. Nor is his liver, after the last two days. When Misha excuses himself from the table Jensen waits, fidgeting with the stitching on a napkin until he can follow. He swings open the washroom door, muttering an apology to a guy he nearly clocks on the other side before catching Misha coming out of a stall, next to one still occupied.

Misha barely casts him a glance as he turns to the row of ivory basins. Shoving his hands in his pockets Jensen moves behind, close. The harsh white light makes Misha’s skin look waxy in the mirror. “You pissed at me right now?” he asks smoothly to their reflections.

Shaking water from his hands Misha reaches for a towel, depositing it in the bin before making the full turn so they’re chest to chest. “I’m a lot of things at you right now,” he answers, a sigh hovering in his voice. He nudges their thighs together and brushes the briefest touch of lips across Jensen’s before sliding away and out the door in one gliding movement. Jensen looks at himself in the glass, sees if he can see the heat spreading like spilled gasoline from where they touched, from his mouth and the tension Misha deposited there. Misha’s struggling too, he knows now.

Returning, he takes his seat and glares at the warm smirk Jared casts him from across the table. He carelessly chugs the remainder of his wine, hoping it might ease the jittery hollow feeling that keeps competing with the warmth he’d wrapped around him all day: from his friends, from all the hugs and laughter and tears from fans, from the absurd fisherman's knot of pride and humility that had split him down the middle so unexpectedly he’d had to spend the afternoon trying to put himself back together.

Eventually they are birthed onto the darkened street, into the fresh cooling air of springtime in Rome. Misha is at his side, purposeful but benign as the group splits into those who have the energy for the next bar and the next, and the handful who choose a prudent walk home.

“Yours, or mine?” he asks, once the last friends exit the hotel elevator and they are finally, truly alone.  A low current of anticipation folds into his exhaustion, making him jumpy. He hasn’t been able to read Misha all evening, other than recognizing he’s holding back.

“Yours is closer,” Misha replies, throwing him a wolfish look that spawns a tingle in Jensen’s spine. He doesn’t mention Misha’s room is only across the hall from his.

As they reach the doorway he fishes in his pocket for the room card, caught in a fold of fabric and unwilling to be dislodged. Misha breathes at his shoulder, crowding him as he’s too hasty with the key, the lock whirring and flashing red at his first, then second attempt. “Third time lucky,” he mumbles as there’s a click and he can shoulder open the door. It locks behind them as he finds to key slot for the power, and he quickly moves out of the spotlight overhead into the dimmed room. Misha is already shrugging off his jacket and emptying his pockets, key, wallet and phone all piled on a console. He does the same, until they finally face each other a few feet apart.

The air-conditioning is the only sound for what feels like too long. Jensen hangs his head, unable to compete with Misha’s steady gaze raking over him from head to toe. He feels empty again— no, that’s the wrong word, he decides. Just depleted, amorphous.

“Am I going to need my safe word?” he asks, reluctant and hopeful at the same time. He’s not sure his brain (or body) could go anywhere right now other than to sleep, but for Misha, he’d try. And really, it would be his own fault, if 'fault' was a term applied loosely.

“Are you seri—” Misha stops and takes a deep breath. “No. But I think I might.”

The waspish reply snaps Jensen's head up, but Misha is looking away as he half sits on the desk, knuckles glaring angrily as his hands grip the wood to each side of his hips. “Uh, meaning?” Jensen asks carefully.

When Misha turns, the expression that greets him disperses into something more wrecked and complicated than peevishness. “Meaning, you are a confusing, reckless, insolent, high-maintenance little—"Jensen doesn't bother guessing what descriptive name Misha abandons. "But… but sometimes I love you so much it hurts.” Misha’s brows pinch. “Not ‘but’, _and,_ ” he amends.

Jensen tries to reconcile that statement for a few moments, but gives up. A reply disputing who’s the most confusing in this room sits on his tongue, but he swallows it in favor of lazily crossing the distance so they’re toe to toe. He’s had years to learn their communication is too often less than fruitful unless they are within arm’s reach.

Misha stays slumped against the furniture, round eyes drifting shut as Jensen decides to answer with his hands instead. He grazes Misha’s arms on his way to cupping his jaw, then leans down to deposit a kiss, dry and chaste, but long enough that he feels the pressure begin to drain from Misha’s frame. Pulling back, he thumbs along each cheekbone and waits until Misha blinks owlishly before letting an unapologetically sly smile curl his top lip.

A sullen noise fills Misha’s sigh, but the corner of his mouth ticks upward. He lifts his hands to remove Jensen’s from his face, turning them palm over and bending to kiss each one in a solemn gesture that shoves Jensen violently to the sudden precipice of _too much_ for at least the fourth time that day.

Misha narrows his stare. “Next time you want to avoid your feelings, how about not exposing yourself to me in front of hundreds of people. Many of whom, may I add, wanting to know if we’re fucking like rabbits in our spare time.”

The smile that spreads over Jensen’s face is unstoppable, the image of Misha tripping over his words and trying desperately to incarcerate nervous and embarrassed laughter too sweet to suppress.

He chuckles quietly before addressing the accusation.“I wasn’t avoiding. Deflecting, maybe—”

“You were goading me, shamelessly, in front of an avid audience of hundreds— thousands!” Misha exclaims, dropping one hand to wave his own about in the air, presumably indicating all the fans who had a prime seat to him being a Grade A brat.

“And _who_ taught me embrace my kink?” he volleys back, feeling smug for a moment before it flip-flops into indignation. He crosses his arms, despite the lack of space between them. “You hung me out to dry though.”

“I just gave you what you needed, instead of what you wanted.” Misha pauses to roll his eyes. “That sounded less arrogant in my head,” he mutters to the middle distance over Jensen’s shoulder.

Jensen hums unhappily. “So making me cry in public was better than taking me home and making me beg? I needed you.”

“I didn’t make you— are you _really_ wanting to debate the more healthy way of dealing with your emotions? Now?” Misha leans back looking frazzled, like he is the one abruptly about to shed tears, and it’s Jensen’s turn to sigh. He unfolds his arms to massage Misha’s, kneading the heel of each hand from shoulder to elbow. “You needed to claim it,” Misha murmurs sullenly, “just you.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” Misha volleys back. He tilts his head to the left before stumbling on. “If I hadn’t pulled up your runaway train this afternoon and bound you in a metaphorical corner so you could spill everywhere, you would be begging me to do it literally right now, and Jesus, Jensen... I’m too fucking tired.”

“Dammit,” he whispers theatrically to the ceiling, trying to lighten the mood and his tentative disappointment. Though Misha is right: as much as Jensen had pushed him - part of him stubbornly still wanting to push him - sceneing would be a terrible, foolhardy idea right now. Misha was usually right, where it mattered. It was one of his most annoying traits.

His eyes fall back down as Misha rises so they're both standing, chests almost touching. Jensen parts his lips on instinct as Misha scans his face, his friend’s expression turning anguished for a moment before he speaks.  “I hope you know, it’s been killing me ever since that… that I haven’t been able to _get_ to you.”

Jensen studies him, fond and relieved. _Now_ he understands the cool frustration. “You have me now,” he reasons, but instead of waiting passively he turns the tables, gliding a palm up Misha’s back and planting a long languid kiss - a seed for when they’d both finished shedding the day’s baggage. He can feel Misha unwind under his hands, amused at how the one in this scenario who - by now - really needed indulgent reassurance, was not himself. 

“Shower?” Misha eventually breathes against his lips.

“Mmm-hmm,” he hums, stealing one last tug at Misha’s pillowy top lip, more than happy to finally have a direction to follow.

Misha leads him by the hand to the bathroom, turns on the faucet, and slips him out of his shirts while the water warms. Jensen lets himself be handled, lets Misha solemnly bare him, shed him— both of them, of the restrictions and chaos of the day. The mood dissolves however when his fly is opened to bring Misha eye to beaded eye with his namesake sitting squarely over Jensen’s swaddled dick.

“Christ,” Misha huffs, stifling a laugh again before looking up in vague horror. “You didn’t plan that all along, did you?”

Jensen grins, dancing his hips a little. “Well I was always planning on showing you later, if that’s what you mean.” He has to force down the chuckle threatening to erupt at the _little bear_ joke he’d been wearing all day. He thought he was hilarious when he put them on this morning and despite events - because of them, even - that hadn’t changed.

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you.”

“What do you mean?”

Misha wrestles with getting his jeans over his heels and divests him of his socks. “Meaning, you’re the architect of the monolithic wall around us, but every now and again you just knock out a fucking giant picture window.” He peels the offending underwear down Jensen’s legs and points an authoritative finger at him as he steps free. " _You_ have to stop watching so much HGTV. Now get in.”

He ducks his lips and pretends he doesn’t know what Misha means, but does as he’s told, testing the temperature before easing under the spray while he waits for Misha to join him. “They’ll just assume I was drunk,” he argues as he feels Misha press against his wet back.

“And that makes it better?” Misha murmurs into his shoulder.

He considers the implications for a moment. “Yeah, good point,” he acknowledges.

The rest of the shower passes in silence as Misha takes his time to wash them both, methodically kneading shampoo into Jensen’s scalp and tenderly soaping each swathe and dale of skin.  “I think this haircut is finally growing on me,” Misha muses afterwards, toweling off Jensen’s hair to leave it in damp spikes.

Several smart-ass comments pop like tiny bubbles in his brain, never retaining enough form to make it to his mouth. He’s so relaxed he could almost go to sleep right there, standing on the fake marble tile. “Bed,” comes the order as he’s turned around, more than ready to slump between the smoothed sheets, cool on his abraded being.

After a few moments Misha joins him, retrieving two bottles of water from the mini refrigerator and placing them on the closest bedside. Then he unceremoniously folds under the covers and exhales, long and loud.

“I haven’t called home today,” Jensen says, the worry hitting him out of the blue.

“I sent Dani a message,” Misha replies, offhand.

Jensen swivels his head to cast Misha a questioning look. “What? When?”

“During dinner.” Jensen’s frown deepens. “Jensen, you’ve been out-of-it all afternoon. If I couldn’t look after you the way I wanted to, at least that’s one way I could,” Misha adds.

“Uh, thank you.”

“You won’t thank me when I send her evidence of what you did on that stage.”

“You’re an asshole.” he grumbles, unconcerned. Mostly.

“Did you forget the internet existed? Maybe you were drunk after all.”

_Shit._

Cold chagrin barely has a chance to take hold in his chest before the warmth of Misha’s head replaces it, using one pec as a pillow as he rolls a leg over Jensen’s knees and tucks along his side. Long flat fingers ghost over one thigh and hip then play over this stomach to return via the other side.

A vague memory occurs, making his ribs vibrate with mirth. “What?” Misha slurs.

“Irony,” he explains. “We’re not fucking like rabbits at all. We haven’t managed to have any sex all weekend.”

“Oh.”

“It’s _Rome_ Mish _,"_ Jensen whines.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Rob,” Misha answers his own question, just as Jensen pronounces “Robbie!” sending them both into shaky giggles. “Poor Benedict,” Misha adds, not sounding at all apologetic for either the indecent incident Rob had walked in on last night, or the drinking marathon into the early hours of this morning. Jensen had stumbled off to bed among the first to finally vacate Rob's room, barely remembering Misha landing beside him to almost instantly begin snoring at some subsequent point.

To be fair, Jensen had never recouped from the night previous to that, whereupon _he’d_ been the one to fall asleep in the middle of Misha’s ministrations. And if Misha is going to shove his hand down Jensen’s pants in their friend’s bathroom with everyone else just outside, he should really lock the door first.

They are, undoubtedly, both assholes of the highest order.

“You’re right though,” Misha complains, “It feels like we’ve hardly seen each other. Alone.” He grimaces, then adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

Misha levers over Jensen’s length to line up their bodies. “You mean you _weren’t_ trying persistently to get my attention today?” he explains with an oily smirk.

A flinching smile ticks at Jensen’s mouth even as his palms naturally find the dips near Misha’s spine, fingers splaying towards the swell of his ass. “I guess it worked, even if backfired on me.”

Misha’s expression falls, soft but grave. “I hesitate to wonder what you would have flaunted next if I hadn’t helmed you on a different course.” Jensen searches his face looking for levity and finds next to none, though Misha shows no displeasure either.

Unable to take the weight of Misha’s full stare, he squirms and reaches to find the bedside lamp, plunging them into darkness before molding one hand at the base of Misha’s crown and coaxing him down so their open mouths meet. He lets the kiss build, his hips arching as it turns hungry and dueling before ebbing away. When he opens his eyes again they’ve adjusted to the dark, the gloom just weak enough to see lines of determination etched in Misha’s features.

Misha’s head dips to nose behind Jensen’s ear, lips pressing under the bolt of his jaw to begin stamping reverence in a scenic path along the ridge of his shoulder before swerving diagonally to first one nipple, then the next, teeth grazing them to points before being washed with a circling tongue. Jensen’s hands subconsciously seek Misha’s head, fingers knitting into the dark hair as the mouth giving him undivided attention nips and sucks over his chest and down his right side. Unruly stubble scrapes his ribs, nerves cinching as the resolute licks move lower, crossing the plateau of his belly in tiny whirls of heat. “Mish,” he gasps, disabled by anticipation as his dick is treated to a sweeping stripe, then left to twitch under a chasing blast of cool blown air.

Misha removes Jensen’s tangled grip and worms back on his heels, bedcovers ruching behind him. Sitting on his thighs, his friend laces their fingers then rocks forward, bending Jensen's wrists to the mattress and leaving him helpless and exposed for the second time that day. And for the second time Misha channels every overwhelming sensation to somewhere safe and supported, in this instance the literal wet-warm cradle of Misha’s mouth as he bows and sucks him down.

He keens, blood rushing to meet Misha’s tongue as it caresses and mauls every square inch from his slit and his suddenly pitifully neglected ass. A slow fever draws upwards, his skin litmus paper to prickling heat until every swipe generates a current from his pelvis that dissipates over his torso. It’s too much - too much and never enough at the same time and he has no idea how long it’s been but he thinks he’s maybe been panting Misha’s name for the last five minutes when his tormentor finally pauses to cast him a greedy look. 

“Now I’ve got you warmed up, what shall I do with you?” Misha asks, not sounding nearly as confident and arch as his choice of words denote.

“C’mere,” he pleads, tugging on the fingers still wound with his. Misha hesitates, then releases him to crawl so that he hovers once more above his face. “You don’ have to,” Jensen whispers, although if Misha insists he’s not going to put up any resistance. The part of him that wants to be tended to until he orgasms into blissful unconscious begins wrestling valiantly with the part of him saying _This is enough. This is all I can handle and all I need._

Misha’s eyes are unreadable in the dark, so Jensen startles when he speaks, voice tremorous and tight.

“You’re not just a molecule.”

Jensen blinks, the gears in his brain grinding with the abrupt change in direction. “What?”

“I know you like to think you’re incidental,” Misha says precariously, referring to Jensen's unplanned tearful tapping of a well on stage, “but you’re not— you’re no more, no _less_ infinitesimal than I am.”

His forehead dips, like he’s lost the strength to hold it up, so Jensen pushes his chin forward to smile into his hair. “That been bugging you all evening?” he asks, gently amused.

Misha looks up, the lines around his eyes relaxed again, but he says nothing. Jensen fits a palm to his cheek and Misha leans into it, a faint contented noise vibrating his jaw. “No,” he finally argues, before craning to press his lips to each of Jensen’s eyes, forcing them closed. “It’s been bugging me how much I needed to tell you how proud I was of you,” he continues, and _Fuck_ if that doesn’t go straight from his ears to his dick, leaving his heart in tatters on the way.

Rutting upwards, he tucks his forearms across Misha’s back and grapples them both onto their sides, trapping Misha to him with a curled leg behind his thighs and the crush of his mouth, hungry with the need to show his friend, accomplice, _lover_ how much he still needs those words, needed Misha to need to say them. When they were away together it was easy to distill their lives down to something small and selfish, especially when everything else felt too expansive and weighted. But Misha stood him upright in ways no one else in his life could.

Neither of them liked to admit it, but they’d grown to need each other, even if it was just enough to serve as a reminder they weren’t only complete assholes, something that was difficult to believe when they had everything, _and_ _this._

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier then?” he asks, husky and breathless once the urgency in his assault wanes. Misha inches away and arches a brow before jostling their hips so Jensen lets out a hungry groan as their snug dicks brush, as if that answers the question. To be fair, it probably answers most.

“Touché,” he whispers before they go back to trading kisses - no longer imperative, but just as compelling as they are lazy. Legs tangle and hands wander over curve and plane and occasionally their bundled cocks, though never in a way that demands a resolution.  Jensen wonders sleepily if that’s because neither of them can quite muster the energy to roll over and reach for one of the packets of lube stashed in the bedside draws, despite the fact it was goddamn Rome and there was _no way_ they could leave before they resoundingly got each other off.

At least there was always the morning, he reminds himself absently. A morning they’d set aside just for them, to be simple and selfish and unhurried, two fragments bonded in a composition all of their own.

 

 

 


End file.
